


Serving

by TheManicMagician



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Artist Papyrus, Horror, Hypnotism, M/M, Mind Control, Vampire Gaster AU, Vampires, Vampirism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 15:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8495608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManicMagician/pseuds/TheManicMagician
Summary: Papyrus is commissioned by the reclusive royal scientist for a portrait painting, but has bitten off far more than he can chew.





	

Gaster eyes the building before him with some measure of trepidation. It has seen better days; some shingles are missing from the roof, most of the windows are busted out. Hardly the spot he’d pick for an esteemed art show.

He glances down at the ticket clenched in his hand. Indeed, this is the place he’s supposed to be at. His assistants, needlessly fretting over his health and well-being, insisted he spend a night away from work, and all but shoved this ticket into his hands. They wouldn’t have given it to him in jest—perhaps they’d been duped? What was that saying? Smart people often lack common sense.

He elects to go inside regardless; he’s already here, he might as well see what they have to offer.

Gaster steps inside. The sizeable crowd milling about is surprising, given the grubbiness of the place.. What is more astounding, however, is the unbelievable quality of the artwork. He is greeted first with massive, sweeping landscapes of the city. The realism of the paintings is unlike anything he’s ever seen. It’s almost as if he’s looking through the window of a tall building, rather than staring at layers of paint on a canvas. Gaster steps closer. The buildings in the foreground even have silhouettes of monsters inside them, no two alike. Every stroke of the artist’s brush is meticulous, precise. Never before has he seen such enthusiasm for detail.

Dividers have been raised through the room to separate sections of artwork. Gaster continues on, and the landscapes give way to subject paintings.

There are a few of a small white dog at play, and then a whole wall full of a short, stout skeleton monster. Each and every one of them shows the subject at rest, in increasingly odd places: on the floor, against a mailbox, behind a fridge.

Gaster pauses before one depicting the skeleton snoozing at a sentry station, head pillowed in the arms of his baggy blue sweatshirt. The colors on this are softer, loving. The artist’s affection for the subject is palpable.

“Thirsty?”

The rumbling voice tears him from his observation; Gaster turns to see the artwork’s primary subject. But instead of sleeping, he’s balancing glasses of wine on a tray. There’s an easy grin on his face. The ratty blue sweatshirt has been swapped out with a t-shirt with the image of a tuxedo printed on it.

“Thank you.” Gaster accepts a glass. 

He takes a sip—and spits it back out into the cup. Not wine, as he had understandably assumed, but grape juice.

The skeleton grins at Gaster’s perturbed expression.

“My bro wants folks of all ages to come to his shows,” He explains. “Isn’t he the coolest?”

“Your brother...the artist behind this work then, I assume?” It certainly explains why he is featured in so much of the art. “Is he here tonight?”

“’Course. This is his big night. He wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I’d like to meet him, if that’s alright.”

Sans eyes him, but nods. “Sure. I’ll see if I can track him down.”

The monster moves off, soon disappearing into the crowd thanks to his small stature. Gaster returns to studying the artwork as he waits, intermittently sipping at the juice.

He drifts over to a large clump of monsters, curious as to what they’re crowding around. They’re hovering before a series of paintings titled “The Surface”. Unlike the rest of the artist’s work, these paintings are supremely bizarre. In one, thunder clouds of swirling pasta rain down large meatballs; the monsters below hold plates up eagerly to the sky. It is...interesting. Gaster allows the artist his surrealist images of the surface. So few of the monsters alive today have actually seen it. 

“Hello!”

Gaster jolts at the sudden loud voice that cuts through the din of conversation. Another skeleton monster, tall and radiating enthusiasm, approaches him. He’s dressed more professionally than his brother was, in slacks and a dress shirt. His outfit is marred only by the silly artist beret sitting askew on his skull. He holds out his hand for a shake.

“Are you the fellow who asked after the Amazing Artist Papyrus?”

Gaster is intrigued.

“Yes. I am Dr. Gaster. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Papyrus.”

Gaster shakes his hand; Papyrus has a firm, strong grip.

“It’s clear to me you put a lot of effort into your art. It’s incredible work.” Gaster praises, and delights in the way it makes Papyrus flush. “Each painting must take an incredibly long time.”

Papyrus puffs up. “One just has to use their time well. And not nap throughout the whole night. Like  _ some _ skeletons.”

“I must commission something from you for my parlor.” Gaster insists.

A smile grows on Papyrus’ face—first dubiously hopeful, then full-on beaming.

“Wowie! My first art show, and I already have a fan!” 

With an exaggerated flourish, Papyrus pulls a business card from his pocket, holding it out to him.

Gaster accepts it and looks it over. It has Papyrus’ full name printed on , as well as his phone number and UnderNet ID. Drawn in the remaining empty space on the card is an extremely detailed doodle of Papyrus with bulging muscles, flexing. There are sunglasses perched on the biceps. “Self Portrait” is the title crammed into the edge of the card.

Gaster laughs; small, but genuine. Papyrus radiates passion and confidence like no one he has ever seen before. And when was the last time someone had managed to surprise a laugh out of him?

“Call me anytime! But on the phone. If you only shout I might not hear you.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Papyrus.”

“Basking in my glorious presence is always a pleasurable activity.” Papyrus winks. “Nyeh heh heh!”

And then Papyrus is off, trotting past other monsters to do god only knows what.

Gaster’s magic pulses beneath his skin. 

His fangs ache.

He drags a hand across his face as he struggles to compose himself. He clenches his hands to suppress their tremors as he moves through the crowd, back towards the exit. It’s not good for him to be around others, now that Papyrus has stirred his appetite.

~*~

Gaster watches from the shadow of a building further down the street as drunken monsters stumble out from a bar and into the open night air, clutching onto each other for much-needed support. He scans the small crowd, and soon singles one out: a rotund cat monster, lagging behind the rest of the group. 

Gaster detaches from the wall, boots whispering across the pavement as he follows after, at a distance long enough that he can remain unseen while still keeping an eye on his unsuspecting prey.

Soon enough, the feline departs from the group. Another monster ruffles the fur on his head in a patronizing farewell. The cat’s tail lashes behind him angrily, but he says his goodbyes cheerfully enough before splitting off from the herd, down a smaller street.

Gaster follows. 

He strains his hearing, waiting until the bawdy shouts of the cat’s compatriots fade entirely. The night is silent and still, save for the warbling tune the cat whistles forth. Gaster shortens the distance between them and surges forth, wrapping his hands like tight bands around the monster’s elbows.

The cat monster yowls, trying to twist around.

“Get offa me—!”

Gaster’s fangs elongate to deadly points. He sinks his teeth into the meat of the monster’s throat.

Rich blood wells up, and Gaster’s tongue flicks out, to lap at the warm liquid.

The cat’s thrashing comes to an end, his arms dropping limply to his sides. Gaster has to support his weight as his knees buckle. As he continues to drink, the monster’s fingers grey over.

Gaster drains the monster until dust flecks his tongue. He retracts his fangs, and the remainder of the cat’s form drops to the ground, bits tearing off in the wind.

He collects the monster’s abandoned clothing, shaking out the clumps of dust from it. The scent of dust is overpowering, like chalk and ash. Without any form of identification lying around, the guard can only hazard guesses. Even the finest hounds would have difficulty sussing out the cat’s identity. 

Gaster runs his tongue across his teeth, grimacing at the taste.

When monsters had lived on the surface, he and his coven fed exclusively on humans. For centuries they had filled themselves with the metallic taste of human blood. But after being sealed in the Underground, they were forced to turn to other monsters if they wished to live.

At first, a handful of monsters offered to be donors. But while vampires could feast upon humans and they would recover, monsters were substantially more fragile. Only those with strong, powerful magic were able to survive the first session; many crumbled into nothing. 

The coven was horrified—they’d never intended such a thing—and the king was merciful, sparing them from capital punishment. But the kin of the dusted monsters had not been nearly so forgiving, and many vampires were hunted and slain in the name of vengeance. 

For those that escaped the slaughter, their options for survival dwindled. They could subsist on a share of the blood donated to hospitals, though it paled in comparison to the strength and potency of fresh blood. It could never fully satiate, always left hunger gnawing at their stomachs, demanding more. Many chose the alternative: to stop eating altogether, embracing the idea of vampires as a doomed species. The old offered up their bodies for sustenance, and the young fed upon them, until none remained.

Gaster refused to waste away to a lean, feeble thing. He refused to die.

So into the shadows he crept, feeding off of those no one would truly miss.

He came to learn that, unlike humans, every monster’s blood was truly unique in regards to taste. Their blood and the essence of their magic twine together inside their bodies to form an individual flavor.

Years flew by. The Queen gained and lost two children. A capital was abandoned, a new one built. Gaster applied his centuries of knowledge to the realm of science, and with a handful of assistants developed the Core that powers the entire Underground. As he became wrapped up in his projects, he gradually lost touch with the few remaining members of his kind. He might very well be the last.

The last of a once proud, noble species, reduced to picking through the gutters for his meal. Gaster tucks the abandoned clothing close to his chest as he heads towards Hotland. The molten magma makes evidence disposal a simple matter.

He grimaces at the aftertaste which lingers still on his tongue. Before he gets back to work, he’ll need a drink to wash down the bitter taste of the cat’s blood.

~*~

“Sans!” 

Papyrus bursts from his room, freshly showered and dressed in his favorite bone-patterned pajamas. 

He finds his brother sprawled across the couch, snoring faintly. He’s still dressed in his outfit from the art show, and he has tugged his ratty blue jacket over himself as a makeshift blanket.

Papyrus’ paintings are leaning against the wall, each individually wrapped in old yellowed newspapers. Sans had helped Papyrus bring them back from the show, and then must have figured his day was over, and promptly passed out on the couch.

Papyrus leaves Sans to his nap—only for a moment!—to retrieve a celebratory snack from the kitchen. Their little white dog is chowing down on its dinner, and its tail wags wildly as Papyrus steps over it to reach the cabinet. He pulls out an unopened bag of ketchup-flavored chips and returns to the living room.

“Sans!” He shouts again. His brother jerks upright, coat sliding down to pile at his legs. “You can’t sleep yet!”

“Wasn’t sleepin’. Eyes were just resting.”

“No resting of any kind!” 

Sans scrunches his legs up as Papyrus flops down on the couch beside him. He notes the bag of snacks in Papyrus’ hand.

“What’s the occasion?”

“We are celebrating!”

Papyrus tosses the bag to his brother, and starts digging for the remote from wherever it was last wedged in the couch. After locating it, he turns the television on; as always, the set is left on MTT’s channel. A Halloween special plays. Mettaton carves pumpkins with chainsaws, pulp splattering everywhere. Some of the orange goop gets on the camera lens; the cameraman wipes it away hurriedly. Papyrus nods in approval at the show. Drama, action, gratuitous violence. The paragons of television.

“So Sans.”

Papyrus rounds on Sans excitedly. Sans has already shoved a handful of chips in his maw; he swallows them down. 

“Yeah, bro?”

“Guess what?”

“Uh. Mettaton came out with a new facial cream?”

“Did he?—Wait, no. That’s not what I wanted to tell you.” Papyrus pauses, for dramatic effect. “I got my first commission!”

“That’s so cool, bro.” Sans is making that face he gets when he’s trying not to grin too hard. “Was it from that tall guy?”

Their dog toddles over and jumps up on the couch, snuggling itself in Papyrus’ arms. He pets it idly.

“More like tall, dark, and handsome!” Papyrus coos. The man had been almost unnaturally striking, with his high cheekbones, powerful physique, and a paleness that stood in stark relief against his sable coat.

“Oh, here we go.”

Papyrus narrows his eyes. “And what is with that tone of voice?”

“Pap, I have been here with you for every crush of yours. Remember in third grade, when you fell for that bear? Sandra?”

“Sans.” Papyrus groans. Why must his brother dredge up the follies of his misspent youth?

“You kept singing beneath her window until her parents called for me to come get you. Guess your love was just...unbearable.”

Papyrus swats him.

“This is different, Sans.”

His brother crunches more chips, scattering crumbs all over his front.

“I think I’ve seen him before in the papers. What was his name again?”

“Gaster,” Papyrus says. He can’t help the smugness in his voice. “ _ Dr.  _ Gaster.”

“Right, right. Guess he’s some big fancy scientist at the Core.”

“Handsome  _ and _ smart.” Papyrus sighs dreamily. “A total package of goods!”

Sans seems wary, so Papyrus blurts: “But do not fret, dear brother! I will restrain myself from making any forms of romantic advancement until the commission is complete.”

“Aw, Paps, I don’t mind. You can do what you want. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Sans’ concern is touching, but unnecessary. Papyrus is a grown bones! He can look after himself.

“Considering your penchant for inactivity, that is a great many things.”

“Harsh, bro.”

Papyrus dials up the volume of the television, to drown out the loud crunch of Sans eating. On the show, Mettaton poses glamorously amid a roomful of defeated pumpkins.

“Wow. Talk about blood and gour...d.”

Papyrus lets out a sigh of despair, tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling.

“I think that is the most awful pun you’ve ever said to me. What did I do in a past life to deserve someone like you?”

“You just wish you’d thought of it first.”

“Blasphemy! Slander!”

~*~

Papyrus shivers in the cold autumn air. His threadbare jacket does little to ward off the chill. But no matter! After so much walking, he must be close to the doctor’s house by now.

Papyrus sets down his equipment for a moment, to pull out the scrap of paper on which he’d written the address and directions. He had not expected the doctor to live so far from the city, his home tucked into the vestiges of the forest that once blanketed the entire capitol. Dr. Gaster obviously enjoys his privacy. Papyrus can relate; there are times when he feels trapped in the apartment he shares with Sans, unable to escape the torrent of puns and pranks. Sans is usually good enough to give him a quiet zone for his paintings, but not always.

After reassuring himself that yes, he is indeed going the right way, he grabs up his supplies again and continues marching deeper into the forest. The thick foliage blocks out most of the light. Even though it’s the middle of the day, Papyrus struggles to avoid snarls of roots in the dim dark. He takes a right at a large, oddly nose-shaped rock, and finally he’s there.

The mansion is enormous; nearly a castle. The dark bricks are weathered and worn, as if they had been laid down when monsters first settled in the new capitol, over a hundred years ago. Ivy twines around the black bars of the gates that fence the doctor’s property off.

Papyrus approaches the gates, and is surprised as they open on their own, welcoming him further inside. He walks down the neat path to the front door of the estate. The lawn is cut short, carefully tended. Stone-carved gargoyles stare down at him from their perches above the door, like watchful guardians.

Before Papyrus can knock, the door is opened by none other than Dr. Gaster himself.

“Hello, Doctor!”

Gaster’s smile turns down into a frown as he looks Papyrus over. 

“Oh, Papyrus. I’m terribly sorry you had to carry all of that all this way. Can I take something off of you—?”

“You need not fret, good doctor.” Papyrus hefts the painting gear in his arms. “This is excellent strength training! I must maintain my impeccable pecs, after all!”

Huffing a laugh, Gaster steps away from the door, giving Papyrus room to enter.

“Do come in.”

Papyrus lets himself be ushered inside, glancing around curiously. The mansion oozes respectability and age. Tapestries are draped upon the walls. The furniture is a dark cherry, ornate patterns etched into the wood. The mansion is far too old to be wired for electricity; instead, candlesticks are spaced intermittently, resting on small decorative tables. They cast a dim, fleeting light over the hall.

Gaster leads him down a hallway of portrait paintings. Papyrus pauses to observe them, noting their particular style.

“It is something of a tradition in my family, for a professional portrait to be made. I would very much like you to paint mine.”

Wowie! He’s not just here to make a landscape, but a fancy portrait, to be hung up on the walls in the family estate. He’s excited, but nervous. He can’t mess this up!

Papyrus studies a painting of Gaster, much younger, with his parents. Even as a young adult, Dr. Gaster still had that distinguished air about him.

“You get your handsome high cheekbones from your mother, I see.”

“Yes.”

Papyrus backpedals as he realizes what he’s said.

“I-I didn’t mean it like  _ that _ —I am simply making an artistic observation.”

“...Shall we press on?”

Papyrus leaps at the lifeline Gaster throws him.

“Y-Yes!” Flawless recovery.

He follows Gaster through a maze of long, winding corridors until they at last arrive at a drawing room. It’s substantially brighter than the hallway, thanks to the tall windows. Through their glass, Papyrus can see the forest, stretching as far as the eye can see. 

The room itself is filled with chairs and couches, a piano with ivory keys tucked into one corner. A room for entertaining guests, ostensibly. 

“I believe this should suffice.”

Papyrus sets down his load of supplies; tubes of paint, a palette, his easel, a sketchbook, and a large blank canvas. Setting the canvas aside for the moment, he props up the sketchbook on the easel. 

He looks around the room, tapping his foot.

“Can you sit by the windows?” 

Gaster obliges him, settling on the chaise lounge.. The ample lighting will allow Papyrus to paint an accurate picture. He crosses one leg over the other, his cupped hands resting on his knee.

“It will take several hours for me to get all the details down.” Papyrus warns him. “Usually my lazy slug of a brother sleeps the whole time, so it’s not an issue.”

“I don’t mind,” Gaster says, mildly.

Papyrus adjusts the easel to the side, so he can get a clear view of the doctor as he works. Picking up a nub of graphite, he starts sketching angles and poses, trying to find the one most suitable. From time to time he directs Dr. Gaster to shift position, turn his head this way and that.

Papyrus takes a quick glance over at the doctor, and freezes; those violet eyes are staring right at him. Flustered, he jerks his gaze back to the sketchbook. Dr. Gaster is simply curious about his methods! There is nothing to be embarrassed about!

Ignoring the heat rising to his face, Papyrus continues to sketch.

~*~

It’s the third day Papyrus has come to his home. They’ve filled the hours they’ve spent together with idle conversation as Papyrus works. It’s easy to get the young monster talking, and their discussions mostly concern Papyrus telling him of the trivial things that happen in his day, of the irritating pranks his brother has pulled.

Papyrus has finished the sketching phase, and now works on the first layer of paint.

Two hours tick by peacefully, filled by the usual stream of Papyrus’ chatter.

“Papyrus.” Gaster breaks in, interrupting him. “I must confess that I am parched. Would you mind terribly if we moved to the kitchen, for a moment?”

As he predicted, Papyrus is quick to agree and set his paintbrush down. “Of course! You should have said something earlier if you were thirsty. You know what they say; a watched pot always dehydrates!”

The kitchen is spacious, but largely useless. He can eat and drink as other monsters do, but the boost to his magic is negligible. It is not often that Gaster has guests to show it off to, so he barely bothers with its upkeep. In preparation for this moment, however, he went out to the market for the first time in quite some while, and picked up several beverages he thought Papyrus might enjoy. He also bought a random assortment of vegetables to further fill the fridge, to give credence to the thought that he eats from it regularly. 

Gaster peers into the now well-stocked fridge. He selects an open bottle of wine for himself.

“What will you have, Papyrus?”

“Milk, please!”

Gaster grabs the milk carton as well, and pours them both something to drink. They take seats at the barstools by the kitchen island. He sips at his wine as Papyrus gulps down the milk.

“It appears you needed it more than I did.”

“Milk is important for strong healthy bones!” Papyrus insists.

Gaster sets his glass aside. His eyes glow softly as his magic suffuses through the room.

“You are a very talented young monster, Papyrus. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

An orange blush dusts Papyrus’ cheeks. “Of course! The A-Amazing Artist Papyrus is quite the c-catch…”

“I’ve noticed the way you look at me.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Papyrus protests. “I was just trying to draw you as accurately as possible, that’s...it…”

Papyrus sways, and steadies himself on the kitchen counter. He presses a hand to his temple.

“What’s, I don’t….Doctor?” Papyrus’ voice is soft, tremulous with confusion.

Gaster stands, tugging Papyrus from his seat. He pulls Papyrus flush against his chest. Papyrus stares up at him, dazed.

“Will you be a good boy for me, Papyrus?” 

“Y-Yes.” He whimpers.

Gaster pushes down the side of his shirt, exposing his collarbone and neck. Papyrus shivers against him.

Gaster’s long fingers brush against the pearl-white bone before they trail up, to grab Papyrus’ chin.

He crushes their mouths together in a hungry kiss. Papyrus reciprocates sloppily. Drool trickles down the side of his mouth. When Gaster finally pulls away, Papyrus gasps in much-needed air. His face is flushed dark with want.

Gaster tilts Papyrus’ head to the side, to grant himself the easiest access. 

By now, Papyrus’ mind has been swaddled heavily in layers and layers of hypnotic magic. Gaster’s fangs elongate, and not so much as a flicker of instinctual fear flashes across his features.

Gaster pulls him close and sinks his fangs deep into Papyrus’ vertebrae. 

Papyrus cries out in mingled pain and pleasure, but makes no move to escape.

His magical energy is like a jolt to Gaster’s system. The magic-infused marrow is tangy, almost sweet. Papyrus’ enthusiasm and energy flows into Gaster. He’s like a man roused from a long sleep. Awake, alive, body burning with sensation.

He gluts himself on the rich, savory taste. Papyrus sags heavily against him, too weak to support himself.

Gaster drinks and drinks. His appetite is not only satisfied; he feels pleasantly stuffed, as he hasn’t in some time.

He withdraws, sated. Twin trails of marrow dribble down the vertebrae, to dot the seam of Papyrus’ shirt. He’s slack and unresponsive, but his body remains firm and solid atop Gaster. The well of his magic is by nature deep enough that he managed to survive the feeding.

“How fortunate I was to find you,” Gaster murmurs.

He leans forward and licks at the bite marks on Papyrus’ neck. His saliva will speed the healing process along.

Papyrus’ legs shake like those of a newborn foal as Gaster drops his hold.

“Follow.”

Mindless, he trails after Gaster from the kitchen, back into the drawing room. Gaster situates him on one of the sofas. He retreats momentarily to his bedroom, and returns with a crimson scarf in hand.

He winds it around Papyrus’ neck.

“You will wear this for as long as you’re in the company of others.”

Glassy-eyed, Papyrus nods. 

Gaster’s magic flares.

“In one minute, you will awake with no memory of what has transpired here. You will return to your home, as you usually do, and come back tomorrow.” 

At first, Papyrus remains limp and still. But as Gaster commanded, within a few seconds he begins to blink heavily, his body twitching as it becomes his own again.

He glances around in confusion at his surroundings. Gaster’s expression betrays nothing.

“Weren’t we just….” Papyrus glances down at the watch on his wrist and springs up, alarmed. “Gadzooks! So late already!” He looks up at Gaster, apologetic. “I should be getting home, before Sans attempts to—to  _ cook dinner _ .”

Gaster smiles. He gestures towards the doorway. “Of course. Thank you for your time.”

“I only hope I can make it home in time to stop whatever ketchup-related travesty my brother will attempt without my supervision.” Papyrus tugs the scarf tighter around his neck as he strides from the room. “Until tomorrow, doctor!”

~*~

He’s hardly taken two steps in the door before Sans is upon him.

“Papyrus! Where have you been?” 

His brother’s voice is too loud, aggravating the headache building between his temples. He had been close to finishing Dr. Gaster’s portrait when he so clumsily smeared his palette across the canvas. He’d tried to wipe and scrape away the gobs of paint, but there was no salvaging it. Days of work, wasted. He’s just grateful the doctor remained patient with him, did not dismiss him outright. He vows to work ten times harder to make up for his blunder.

Papyrus pushes past Sans. He clumsily toes out of his boots to keep mud from tracking in the apartment.

“You know where! Working, at the doctor’s house.”

“It’s nearly midnight.” 

Papyrus continues through the apartment. He’s too exhausted to even bother brushing his teeth; instead, he heads straight for his bedroom. Sans doggedly follows.

“He is a very important client.” Papyrus scrubs a hand across his eyes. “The portrait has to be perfect.”

“But—”

“Brother,” Papyrus turns around to face Sans. “I appreciate your concern, but I am fine.”

He closes the door before Sans can get another word in. Sans hesitates on the other side of the door; he must be fuming. Papyrus doesn’t have the energy in him right now for an argument. He rests his head against the door, hoping Sans will let it go for now. He’ll apologize in the morning, when his mind is no longer fraying at the seams. Finally, Sans’ slippers disappear from underneath the door frame. 

After a moment of deliberation, Papyrus slides the lock of his door in place.

He flops down onto his bed. He tugs his blanket around him, and curls up, closing his eyes. But of course, now that he’s in his bed, sleep escapes him. He shifts, restless, but no position provides him any comfort.

Huffing, Papyrus reaches for his scarf. He winces as he unwinds it from his neck. Drying marrow glues it to his bone; it peels off reluctantly. He prods tentatively at the numerous indents in the bone, wincing when his phalanges graze tender areas.

He can’t remember how he got them. He knows he had gone to Dr. Gaster while it was still daylight; after all, he uses the light from the simulated day cycle to paint the doctor by. So why did he get home so late? Papyrus wracks his brain for answers, but there are random holes in his memory he cannot fill. Fear crawls up his spine. What’s happening to him? Why can’t he remember?

Papyrus tries to focus on the gaps in his mind, but all that surfaces are scattered moments. Dr. Gaster bending over him, his fingers caressing Papyrus’ collarbone, his tongue lapping at his neck...

It has to be a fantasy, conjured up by his weary mind. The doctor has never made advances on him. He goes to the doctor’s house, he paints, he comes home. That’s all that happens.

“Focus,” Papyrus murmurs, trying to push past the pressure throbbing in his skull, trying to  _ think _ . 

...Dr. Gaster looked strikingly handsome today. Papyrus had plucked up the courage this afternoon to ask him about his past romances. He expected many, but the doctor claimed he’d never met anyone that met his standards. He’d fixed Papyrus with a pointed look—or was Papyrus reading what he wanted to in the moment? 

Still, he wriggles out of his jeans and underwear, his hand wandering down to stroke at the folds of magic that manifested on their own.

How would Dr. Gaster touch him? Slow, tender, like the proper gentleman?

No. Papyrus slips two fingers inside his slickened pussy, pumping them in and out. The doctor would be rough. Forceful. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself; he’d need Papyrus so, so badly.

“Dr. Gaster,” Papyrus moans, as he slips in a third finger, losing himself to the fantasy. The doctor would ravish him, thrust into him at a relentless pace, his hands gripping Papyrus’ bones hard enough to bruise.

Papyrus rocks wildly on the three fingers pushed deep inside him. His thumb massages his clit.

Another vision of Gaster floats to the forefront of his mind. Dr. Gaster pinning him to the floor, biting down  _ hard— _

Papyrus comes, muffling his cries into his pillow.

Panting, he wipes his fingers off on his sheet. He balls the soiled blanket up and tosses it in a corner of the room.

~*~

He’s overwhelmed. Something is shifting against him. The smacking sound of flesh on flesh. When had he summoned…?

Dr. Gaster is kissing him. Papyrus tastes blood on his tongue. His head swims.

“Papyrus,” Dr. Gaster says, a bit breathy. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you could stay here with me? Just the two of us…”

That does sound rather nice, especially if it means this becomes a habitual occurrence. 

But there’s a nagging thought at the back of his mind. He can’t stay here. He needs to go home.

“But, Sans....I can’t…”

That’s right. Sans. They’ve always been together, through everything. He can’t leave Sans.

“Forget about Sans.”

“No!” Papyrus moans. “No, no, no.”

“We can be together,” Dr. Gaster insists. “If Sans were out of the way.”

“But he’s…”

Each thrust inside is better than the last. Papyrus’ hands clench in the sheets. He feels so full, with Gaster inside of him.

“Do this for me, Papyrus.”

No. No, he loves his brother, he...Papyrus finds himself captivated by those violet eyes.

~*~

Their dog is barking. Loudly, panicked. Why?

And then awareness floods into him in one massive rush.

He’s on their kitchen floor, his hands wrapped around his brother’s soul. It’s a deep shade of blue, not its usual cerulean; Papyrus has used his magic to keep Sans pinned down against the chilled kitchen tile. Sans’ body is limp and still. Papyrus’ fingers have dug into the soul, nearly crushing it; it flutters weakly in his grip.

With a horrified cry, Papyrus springs away from his brother. The soul is tugged instinctively back into his brother’s chest. Sans jolts once it reconnects. He curls into a ball, wheezing shallow breaths. He presses a hand to his chest, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. Their dog bounds over to lick at his face anxiously.

“Oh, god, Sans,” Papyrus moans. “Oh god, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t…”

Papyrus stares down at his hands. Why...had he done that? Why didn’t he  _ remember _ doing that? He would  _ never _ hurt his brother—

But he had. The damning evidence is before him, the huddled mass of his brother’s form on the tile. He had almost shattered his brother’s soul. He had almost killed Sans.

The gaps in his memory have become fissures. What had he been doing before this. What  _ day _ is it? He doesn’t know. He can’t ground himself.

Papyrus staggers back, clutching at his skull. Quick breaths rattle in his chest. He’s dangerous. He can’t be here. He needs help, he needs—

Dr. Gaster. The thought crowds out all others. Dr. Gaster will know what to do.

Papyrus takes off before Sans can recover enough to try to stop him.

~*~

Papyrus launches himself at Gaster as soon as he opens the door, and grips onto him as if letting go would send him plummeting into an ice-cold river.

“I hurt Sans,” Papyrus whimpers. “I hurt him, I hurt him.”

Gaster sighs. He had thought he had imprinted the drive to eliminate the straggling familial tie quite well. Yet, despite his considerable efforts, Papyrus seems to have subconsciously rebelled against the command.

The older brother will have to be dealt with at another time. More importantly now, Papyrus is here before him. His mind has been flayed open in the battle between Gaster’s conditioning and his independent thought, contradicting feelings warring within his mind. He needs guidance.

“You almost killed your brother.” Papyrus shudders at the condemnation in his voice. “You can’t be trusted on your own.”

“I can’t hurt Sans again.” Papyrus gasps. “I can’t.”

“Here’s what we’re going to do.” Gaster brushes away the tears that roll down his cheeks. Papyrus is beautiful, even under duress. “You’re going to let me take over. Let me handle everything.”

“But…”

“Papyrus. Give me your soul.”

With shaking hands Papyrus pulls the physical manifestation of his soul from beneath his ribcage. Gaster takes it in his hands. His thumbs stroke the silk-smooth texture. Papyrus lets out a low moan, canting his hips mindlessly at the slow stimulation.

Keeping a hold of Papyrus’ soul in one hand, Gaster coaxes forth his own, a deep shade of violet.

After taking a moment to brace himself, he bites down hard into his own soul. Gaster flinches at the burst of pain, like hot knives stabbing into his body. Liquid magic wells up, and after Gaster removes his fangs, the magic drips down from his soul. He positions Papyrus’ soul beneath his own, directs the steady drip, drip, drip of magic to cover its surface and to blend within.

Papyrus jerks at the sensation of foreign magic invading his own, violet swirling with orange. Feebly, he cries out. He tries to fight it, but it’s a losing battle.

“Hush, hush,” Gaster soothes him. “It is nearly over.”

He watches as Papyrus’ final resistance crumbles, and he accepts Gaster’s magic into his own. He feels the magic bond between them seal. Papyrus’ emotions bleed in through the newfound connection—pain, confusion, exhaustion.

“You’ve done so well for me, Papyrus.”

He dismisses his own soul—the puncture is already healing over—and carefully returns Papyrus’ soul as well. He caresses Papyrus’ mandible, smiling slightly as a flood of adoration rushes through the bond.

Gaster has never taken a thrall for himself before. His mother had claimed one, centuries ago. He had seethed with jealousy at the time; was his devotion not enough for her? But now he understands the appeal, understands why his mother had only laughed off his complaints. He can feel the mental bond between him and Papyrus, a comforting, warm presence in the back of his mind. A reminder that he is no longer alone in this world.

He hefts up his dazed thrall into his arms, to take him upstairs to clean him up.

~*~

Sans is startled awake by a loud crash. He springs up from the couch, magic sparking at his fingertips.

The dog yips, and darts down the hall towards the source of the disturbance.

“Wait—”

Sans tries to grab the dog, but the animal’s too fast. Reluctantly, he follows after it. His magic stays loose. Ready.

The dog disappears into Papyrus’ room. Sans swallows. He pushes the door open.

The busted-in window explains the noise. 

Papyrus is home.

His brother shakes out bits of glass from his—cape? Their dog sniffs around him, curious.

Sans’ magic snuffs out. He flicks on the light.

Papyrus’ usual clothes have been replaced with an elegant, expensive suit. That red scarf is still tucked around his neck, and a long black cape is fastened to his body by a ruby brooch.

Sans rushes towards him. 

“Pap, you’re back! You scared me half to death, where have you been—?”

His brother looks up at him, and Sans’ soul constricts in his chest. Soft lilac glows in Papyrus’ eye sockets.

“Greetings, brother!”

Papyrus rises, the last few shards of his window pane slipping off to join the pile of glass on the floor.

He makes towards Sans, arms open as if for a hug. Sans withdraws. His brother’s grin is a touch too wide. Papyrus rocks back and forth on his heels with restless energy.

Papyrus pouts.

“Brother, didn’t you miss me?”

“ _ Miss  _ you—Papyrus, I had the guard organize search parties! I’ve been out most every night trying to find you!”

The guards had searched Gaster’s home at his behest, but had turned up nothing. Sans had been running himself ragged scouring every inch of the Underground for his missing brother.

A small part of him is frightened to be in the same room as Papyrus, the memory of his brother’s fingers clawing at his soul still far too fresh. Sans forcefully quashes the feeling down.

“I wanted to pick you up right away, but Dr. Gaster insisted on waiting. He certainly has a flair for the dramatical!”

Papyrus rummages around his room. He brings out a duffel bag from the closet, and places important sentimental items inside—photographs, books, his favorite outfits.

Papyrus rounds on Sans, who has stood in a stupor for several minutes, trying to process this.

“Don’t just stand around, lazybones.” Papyrus gestures to the door. “You need to pack as well!”

“...Pack?”

Papyrus plants his hands on his hips and huffs. “Have you not been listening? I’ve come to bring you back with me to Dr. Gaster! We’re living with him, now.”

Papyrus acts and sounds like himself. That is perhaps what’s most horrifying; if not for the purple eye lights and the worshipful tone with which he speaks of Gaster, Sans would have no idea that something was amiss. The scientist has woven some sort of spell over his brother, keeping him wrapped up in a delusion.

Sans grinds his teeth. “…of course, bro.”

Papyrus brightens. “Oh Sans, you’ll just love it there! Dr. Gaster has all sorts of those sciencey doobobs that you like!”

“Sounds fun. Just give me a couple minutes to grab some things.”

“I’m happy you’re so receptive, brother! The doctor said you might be against the idea. Isn’t that silly?”

“What can I say,” Sans keeps his tone flat. “You know me. A path of least resistance kind of guy. I go with the flow.”

“Hurry and pack your things! I’m not supposed to keep the doctor waiting long.”

Sans returns to his own room. Out of the presence of his brother, he releases the angry flare of magic that he’d kept restrained. It snaps out, sending his lamp crashing to the floor.

Papyrus hears the thump from the other room.

“That does not sound like packing, Sans!” Comes his muffled yell.

Sans tosses items into a bag at random. He’ll play along for now. Have Papyrus lead him to Gaster, and show that bastard what he’s in for when he messes with his brother.

He takes measured breaths to quell the anger surging within him. What did Gaster want with the two of them? Worse yet, he had had Papyrus with him for days—and weeks before that, while he was painting. Was there even a portrait? Had Gaster just seen his brother at the art show, and decided to use him for—whatever  _ this _ is.

Papyrus is a controlled puppet. A happy one, but with strings just the same. What has Gaster made Papyrus do already? Each possibility that runs through his mind is more awful than the last.

He should’ve known, should’ve went with Papyrus the first time to make sure everything was alright.

Sans jumps as Papyrus pokes his head in the door.

“Are you ready yet?”

Sans slings his bag over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Sans says. His magic is coiled and tense within him, just waiting to be unleashed on its target. “Let’s go.”

~*~

Sans and Papyrus drop their belongings off near the door. The dog, which tagged along at Papyrus’ insistence, pads off to explore the mansion on its own.

“I can’t wait for you to meet Dr. Gaster properly, Sans! I know you talked at the art show, but you didn’t really get to  _ meet _ him.”

Papyrus tugs him down the hall, so eager that in his haste Sans nearly trips to keep up. He’s led through several winding, twisting hallways, but Papyrus doesn’t hesitate at all, well-versed with the layout of the mansion.

“We’re home!” Papyrus trills, as he throws open the double doors to a large, well-kept library.

The doctor, who was reading by the light of a desk lamp, rises to welcome them. Papyrus runs right over to the doctor, to hug him tightly. Inside his pockets, Sans’ hands ball into fists as Gaster pats his brother’s skull.

“What have you done to him?”

Papyrus pulls away from Gaster to look at Sans, the very picture of hurt.

“Sans, I thought you understood. Dr. Gaster is—”

“—is going to fix whatever the fuck he did, or he’s going to become a smear of dust on the carpet.”

“Are you sure this is what you wish to do?”

The air becomes thick with magic and battle intent. A hulking, bestial skull materializes behind Gaster. It hangs in the air, menacing.

Sans divides his attention between it and Papyrus. The last thing he wants is his brother to be caught in the crossfire.

With a flick of his hand, Gaster sends the skull straight for Sans. It opens its maw, energy building inside with a loud whine.

Sans barely manages to dart out of the way of the beam of magic it emits. The patch of carpet he was standing on a split second ago is blackened, curls of smoke hissing up. Sans raises his hand, left eye flaring. He tries to freeze Gaster’s soul blue, but his magic is slides off, unable to grapple on and take hold.

“Fucker,” He growls. This monster must be powerful, to shrug off his magic so easily. Sans needs to get closer.

“Doctor, Sans is fragile.” Papyrus whimpers, tugging on Gaster’s coat sleeve. “You have to be careful with him, please.”

With a sharp look from Gaster, Papyrus releases his hold. 

“Step back.” Gaster orders.

Papyrus reluctantly backs off. He wrings his hands, watching the two of them. 

Gaster returns his attention to Sans.

“When it comes to magical prowess, you are like a child in my eyes,” Gaster remarks. “What hope do you have to defeat me?”

A second skull materializes. The pair of attacks circle Sans. They snap at him, switching off randomly on which of them fires, keeping Sans constantly moving. One of them knocks into a bookshelf, sending several cases falling like dominos. Dust and paper rise in the air.

Sans lobs several bones at the skulls, but they rebound off harmlessly. He curses his shitty damage ability. What use to him is a large reserve of magic if the magic itself is useless?

Sans pivots on his heel, running back towards Gaster. The pair of skull cannons swerve to follow after him. He hears their magic build in their mouths, but he has to forget them for the moment. He just needs to get to Gaster. Then the cannons, the spell over Papyrus, it’ll all be finished.

He pours everything he has into the attack—interlocking patterns, swerving arches, sweeping waves—and hurls them towards Gaster.

Several of Sans’ attacks slip past the doctor’s defenses. Some graze Gaster’s arms, and one cuts a line on his cheek. Blood beads on the cut; Gaster swipes it away with one brush of his thumb. Sans is hitting him with everything he has, but it’s not even close to being enough.

Despair threatens to overwhelm him, but Sans continues to channel his hate and loathing for the monster before him into his attacks. He summons a femur bone, buzzing electric blue with gravity magic, and charges towards Gaster. The doctor draws himself up, more skull cannons popping into existence behind him. If he can just make direct contact, keep him pinned long enough to whittle down his health—

Sans feels a familiar chill trickle into his soul before he pitches forward, dropping to the floor. He tries to pull himself upright, but he’s completely pinned. He can’t so much as twitch his limbs, let alone stand.

“Did I do well, Dr. Gaster?” Papyrus asks, both anxious and hopeful as he bounds over to Gaster again, pressing close to his side.

“Quite.” Gaster pats his skull again, and Papyrus glows.

Sans struggles, but there’s little he can do to shove off his brother’s blue attack. Papyrus’ magic control is as flawless as ever.

If not for Papyrus’ interference, his attack would have landed, he’s sure of it. Sans could have stopped him.  _ He could have stopped him _ .

Gaster crouches down before him, an amused smile pulling up the corners of his mouth. Sans glares up at him as best he’s able with his constricted mobility.

“Give me back my brother,” Sans snarls.

“I fully intend to.” 

Gaster flips him over on his back. He unzips Sans’ hoodie, and thanks to Papyrus’ hold on his soul, he can’t even try to squirm away.

“W-What the fuck are you doing? Get off of me!”

Gaster ignores him, pushing up his shirt, exposing his spine and ribs. He gives Sans’ sternum a few languid strokes. Sans’ gaze jerks past Gaster, up to Papyrus, still watching the pair of them. Sans searches for a shred of his brother in his complacent expression.

“Pap, please. You have to stop him from doing this, please— _ no _ !”

Sans yelps as Gaster’s cold fingers wrap around his soul.

“Accept your fate, Sans.” The tension in Sans’ body drains the longer he stares into those dark, violet eyes. “You’ll enjoy it.”

~*~

“Whatever you’re planning on doing, it won’t work.” Sans spits.

Days have passed since Gaster forced the soul bond on him. It’s a constant prodding at the back of his mind, urging him to relinquish control to Gaster. Like hell he will.

Gaster says nothing. He tests the strength of the wrought-iron chains he has attached to Sans’ limbs, keeping him splayed out on the bed. Sans has been left with his shirt and jacket on, but his shorts and shoes have been removed. 

He hasn’t seen Papyrus since he first got here; the doctor is keeping them apart. Probably hopes it’ll make Sans break easier. Sans balls up all his anger and spite and hurls it at Gaster through the bond. 

“Now, Sans. Why won’t you be sweet about this, as your brother was?”

Revulsion rushes through Sans as Gaster climbs on top of him, squeezing his bared femurs. He refuses to react to Gaster’s touch. The bond the bastard put him under has leashed Sans’ magic; he can’t attack, can’t teleport away. He won’t surrender anything else.

Then Gaster pulls out several bullet vibrators, making sure Sans sees them.

Shit. Where the hell did a guy like him even get those?

“You’re a fuckin’ perv, aren’t ya?” Sans’ voice quavers.

Nervous sweat slides down his skull as Gaster attaches the vibrators to various parts of his pelvis, his touch rough. 

He switches them all on at once, incrementally cranking up their intensity until they’re at their maximum. The toys buzz pleasantly, heating up Sans’ pelvis. His chest heaves as he struggles to keep calm under the onslaught. 

His face warms as Gaster presses his hand to the magic that’s building at his pelvis. He tries to jerk away, but the bonds don’t leave much freedom of movement.

“Don’t you dare touch me, ah, don’t…”  
Gaster strokes him until Sans’ cock is forced to manifest. His hand slides up and down, working his shaft. His thumb swirls around the head, coaxing precome to bead at the tip.

Sans grips the chainlink bonds tightly, though it chafes harder at his wrists. He obstinately refuses to buck up into Gaster’s hand. His pelvis stays planted firmly on the mattress, even as Gaster continues his ministrations.

Sans gasps as something squeezes around his erection. He looks down to see Gaster sliding a cock ring down to his base.

Gaster climbs off of him again. 

“Papyrus, come in.”

Oh no. No no no.

Sans moans with despair as his brother enters the room. Papyrus’ eyes rove over Sans’ body with curiosity, a flicker of lust. 

It’s not Papyrus, he has to remind himself. It’s whatever Gaster has turned him into that makes him like this.

Gaster grips Papyrus’ shirt, and starts undoing the buttons. Sans flinches, looking away; he doesn’t want to see this. Barely audible over the buzz of the vibrators, he hears the shifting of fabric as Gaster continues to undress his brother.

“Now, Papyrus.” Gaster’s voice is like oil. “I want you to sit here and wait until your brother begs to fuck you.”

Sans yanks his gaze back. His brother’s clothes are in a heap on the floor. Gaster holds Papyrus possessively, watching Sans with a smug grin.

“You sick fuck!” Sans snarls.

Gaster ignores him and continues on, fingers rubbing circles absently on Papyrus’ pelvic girdle.

“Only when he says that he wants you, and you specifically, are you to help him. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Dr. Gaster.” Papyrus says. His voice is breathy with adoration. “I’ll make him feel nice.”

“Good boy.”

Papyrus glows at the praise, and presses a quick kiss to Gaster’s mouth. 

“I’ll leave you to it.” Gaster says, fondness warming his tone. “I know you won’t dissapoint me.”

With one last glance at Sans, twitching and quivering on the bed, Gaster leaves the room. Leaves the pair of them alone, together.

Papyrus sits at the edge of the bed. His gaze lingers bashfully on Sans’ erection. Sans’ soul lurches unpleasantly as Papyrus’ own magic visibly gets excited at the sight. It’s  _ not _ Papyrus.

“Pap, let me go.” Sans appeals to whatever glimmer of his brother is left. If Papyrus breaks his restraints, they might be able to get away. It doesn’t matter that Sans’ magic is crippled—he just needs the chance, one chance to escape this hell.

Papyrus shakes his head. “Not until you do as Dr. Gaster asks.”

“I’m not going to—Papyrus, you’re my  _ brother _ . How can you want this?”

Sans hips rock, desperate for friction that he won’t find. 

“I love you, brother,” Papyrus purrs. “Let me help you feel good.”

Sans’ cock twitches.

“No.” He refuses.

Papyrus huffs. “I don’t know why you insist on torturing yourself like this!”

Crossing his arms, Papyrus settles in to wait.

Sans tries to remove himself from the situation by picturing increasingly creative ways to dust Gaster, but the buzz of the vibrators keep him trapped in the moment. He tries to dispel his aching cock, but he’s far too aroused to get rid of it without some form of relief first.

Hours drag on. Sans squirms and fidgets on the bed, painfully,  _ painfully  _ aroused. Precome leaks down the sides of his dick, forming a wet patch on the sheets. The sweat-soaked sheets are crumpled from his constant twisting and rocking. Papyrus waits, staring at him with those unwavering lilac eye lights, mouth parted in wonderment as Sans slowly unravels.

“I’ve got it!” Papyrus speaks up. “If the stimulation alone is not enough to entice you, I simply have to do more!”

Despite himself, Sans can’t tear his gaze away as Papyrus starts to finger himself.

“Paps, no,” His protest is feeble.

Papyrus straddles him, his fingers teasing at the lips of his pussy. Sans quivers with shameful need. Papyrus is mere inches away from him. His juices drip down, splattering onto Sans’ dick. Sans shudders at the faint sensation. It’s not enough.

“Just say you want it, brother.” Papyrus urges him. “Just say it.”

He needs it. God help him, he needs it. Tears of frustration prick his eye sockets.

“Papyrus, I...I…”

“Yes?” Papyrus spreads his folds wide, preparing himself.

“Do it...just…”

Sans bucks his hips up, and just barely manages to brush against Papyrus’ mound before he pulls out of his reach. Sans moans in frustration.

“You need to ask me, Sans.”

“Please, Papyrus. I—I want you. Please. I want t-to fuck you.”

Papyrus kisses him. Messily, Sans reciprocates. His brother reaches down and slides the cock ring off before he seats himself on Sans’ dick.

“Oh, S-Sans.”

Papyrus is so hot and tight around him.

“Sans, you feel so ah-amazing.” But Papyrus remains still atop him, forcing Sans to be the one to thrust inside him. To willfully, fully commit to this.

And he does.

He cants his hips up, impaling Papyrus, sliding all the way into the hilt before withdrawing. Papyrus whimpers with pleasure, each small sound from his mouth a jolt of pleasure to Sans’ cock. He needs to hear more.

Growling, he thrusts up. Papyrus can’t help himself any longer, and he joins in, slamming down on him.

“Please, Sans, yes!”

“Papyrus—”

With a harsh cry Sans comes, filling his brother’s pussy. 

“D-Don’t stop!” Papyrus pants. He rocks against Sans frantically, until he clenches around Sans as he rides out his own orgasm.

“Sans, that was incredible, I...I love you. I love you so much.”

Papyrus leans down and licks at the front of his teeth, demanding entrance. Without thinking, Sans parts his mouth, letting him inside.

Guilt wells within Sans as the haze of lust ebbs slightly. What has he done? He couldn’t even last a day without giving in. He’s an awful, shitty excuse for a person. 

He deserves this.

Sans is still sheathed inside Papyrus, the vibrators keeping his arousal thrumming. Clenching his eye sockets shut, he starts moving again.

~*~

Gaster kicks snow off his boots, a bag of groceries in his hand. His thralls needed to eat, after all. After putting the food away, he climbs the stairs to the master bedroom, where he last left the pair of them this morning when he departed for work.

He senses lust and arousal pounding through both of the bonds, and he’s unsurprised to find the pair of them together on the bed. The room reeks of sex, and the sheets are soiled with several come stains. Sans and Papyrus have their fingers entwined as Sans thrusts into his brother at an escalating pace.

“Mm, Sans, so c-close!” Papyrus pants, the tip of his tongue peeking out of his mouth. His head is thrown back, pressed against the pillow, his expression the picture of ecstasy. 

“You like that, don’t you, you like that,” Sans growls lowly, plowing into his brother relentlessly. Papyrus bucks up off the bed to meet him, the mattress rocking with the force of their movement.

His thralls are completely focused on each other, neither noticing Gaster has entered the room. He smiles with satisfaction at the passionate, concentrated expression on Sans’ face as he thrusts inside Papyrus again and again. Sans’ resistance was formidable at first, even with the thrall-bond forced onto him. He clung to those last scraps of his old life, his previous mentality, with such fervor. But under the combined pressures of Gaster’s magic and Papyrus’ love, Sans eventually caved. They’re both better this way. Papyrus basks in the affection he’s always wanted, and Sans no longer has to shoulder the burden of responsibility.

Gaster watches the pair on the bed and sends a commanding word through the bond:  _ come _ .

Papyrus and Sans cry out as they’re simultaneously brought to climax. 

Sans withdraws from Papyrus, his seed trickling out of Papyrus’ entrance.

“You two have been rather busy, haven’t you?” Gaster asks. The two glance up at his voice, and brighten.

“You’re back!” Papyrus chirps.

“Come here, the both of you.”

Obediently, they crawl from the bed and over to him. On their hands and knees, they gaze up at him with twin sets of lilac eye lights. They’re both entirely shameless; Sans’ come is leaking down Papyrus’ femurs, dripping onto the carpet. And Sans is already growing hard again, the tip of his cock beading with precome.

Papyrus’ hand fumbles at his zipper, and eases Gaster’s growing erection from his pants. Sans latches on first, almost suckling at Gaster’s cock, eyes hazy with bliss.

“Sans, that’s not fair!” Papyrus whines.

Gaster places a hand on Sans’ head, to force him to withdraw. Gaster’s cock slips from his mouth with a small pop.

“Don’t be rude, Sans. Share with your brother,” Gaster scolds.

Sans grumbles, but obeys. He and Papyrus worship Gaster’s cock together, kissing and licking up and down his length. Their little show had gotten him rather worked up already; it doesn’t take long for Gaster to reach his climax.

He grunts as thick ropes of come spurt out, to paint their awaiting faces. Papyrus pulls Sans close, and starts lapping up the mess on his face.

“Bed, now.” Gaster’s demands, voice hoarse with lust.

Gaster sits upright on the bed, back leaning against the headboard. He settles Papyrus into his lap and reaches down, spreading Papyrus’ entrance wide with two fingers. Come continues to seep out at a steady rate.

“Look at the mess you’ve made, Sans.”

“Sorry,” Sans rumbles, completely unrepentant. “I’ll clean it up.”

Nudging Papyrus’ legs wider apart, Sans leans down to Papyrus’ pelvis, and pushes his tongue inside.

“Ah! S-Sans,” Papyrus keens.

“Make sure to do it properly.” Gaster says. Papyrus sighs and moans against him.

Sans is too fragile for Gaster to feed from, but he is not without his uses; Gaster has discovered that arousal heightens the taste of Papyrus’ magic.

Sans slurps at the juices that leak from Papyrus’ pussy. Papyrus pushes his head closer, bucking eagerly against him.

Gater’s fangs elongate, and he bites down hard into Papyrus’ neck. Papyrus’ hip snap up, to press into Sans.

Once he drinks his fill of Papyrus’ sweet, heady taste, Gaster pulls away. Sans’ face is filthy now, sticky with both Gaster’s and Papyrus’ release. Papyrus lays limp against Gaster’s chest, spent.

And for the moment, with his thralls pressed against him, Gaster is content.

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to Crawly who enabled me to write this fic and then helped me revise it. 
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://themanicmagician.tumblr.com/).


End file.
